


for the sixth page

by awrfhi



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, References to Depression, basically just a load of glamour and music and drama . love to see it, mentions of smoking (tobacco and weed lol)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:46:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25411090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awrfhi/pseuds/awrfhi
Summary: dan and phil are both wildly famous singers, dan on his own and phil as a member of the critically acclaimedOrange Excuse. their styles don't really mesh even if both their fans wish they did. so, when a charity asks them to collaborate on a song, for the sake of helping those who need it, they try to work together.
Relationships: Dan Howell & Phil Lester
Comments: 21
Kudos: 26
Collections: Phandom Reverse Bang 2020





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> hello!
> 
> it's been a while since i've posted a fic but i'm back and better than ever <3
> 
> i wrote this for the prb '20; thank you to **candanandphilnot** on tumblr for the gorgeous gifset which i based this fic on (will be linked when it's been posted!) and to **completelyuncreative2** for being my lovely beta!
> 
> i hope u enjoy! kudos and comments are always appreciated :')

The room is vast, sun-stained and, quite frankly, reeks of cigarette smoke.

It’s no different to how Dan remembers it being; one end of the room holds an obnoxiously large desk that’s barely visible (you’d think one computer would be enough for someone) and the other has a piano that’s never been pristine a day in its life, ironic considering he’s never seen anyone actually play it. In the middle of the room is a table and chairs, which is where Dan now finds himself, drumming his fingers on his thigh and waiting for his manager Craig to finish typing.

Dan isn’t even really sure why he’s here. When he’s not working on music or staring aimlessly at a ceiling somewhere, he’s wading through Craig’s daily rundown of texts of what’s been accepted and what’s been politely declined. There are only two situations where Craig will re-read an email, flag it, and send a message Dan’s way with an invitation to “drop by.” 

(Dan, of course, accepts every time, partly because he has to feign interest in this side of his career, but mainly because as managers go, Craig is the most wonderfully bizarre character he’s ever come across in this industry. Everyone Dan’s met has a new story to tell about him, and although Craig himself will never confirm it, legend has it he even had a fling with Elton — yes,  _ Elton Fucking John  _ — in the 80s.) 

The first situation is when the record label is asking for new music and the two of them need to work together to come up with an excuse (Dan is notorious for being a perfectionist, which naturally means he needs more than six months to bring something new to life which meets his exacting standards.) This is always done in person (Craig’s a stickler for traditions) and every year they write a list of new excuses to choose from. Dan’s personal favourite is “I had a bout of explosive diarrhoea” — he’s yet to use that one. One day, when he’s worn down Craig’s defences enough, it’ll be used.

The second situation is a lot less common. Every now and then, some of Dan’s old (pre-fame) posts crop up on some corner of the internet and the press have a field day. It makes Dan’s mouth turn sour when he thinks about how many people potentially have old tweets of his saved from when he was young, very gay and  _ very  _ outspoken. Luckily, someone from Dan’s team will track the source and have the posts removed, but not before an article or two have surfaced. Those meetings are difficult ones to sit through.

Craig’s fingers finally stop clacking against the keyboard. He leans back, sighs, and grins cheerily at Dan before sipping some coffee.

“Sorry about the smell,” he starts with. “Those lads from Brum were just here.”

Craig isn’t one to casually namedrop, but Dan can guess with near certainty that he’s referring to  _ Swept Aside _ , the boy band that’s stealing hearts across the globe with their symmetrically perfect faces and catchy bubblegum tunes. It appears that when they aren’t making teenagers faint just by blinking, they’re stinking up the office with tobacco (and is that lavender Dan detects, too?)

Dan smiles back. “I can live with it.” 

Of course, it’s not Craig’s fault for the smell, or any of it. Dan knows that. Craig puts up with a lot more shit than people give him credit for. It’s Craig who has to suffer through meetings with clients who let their cravings get the better of them and Craig who swats away dodgy business propositions like flies in the summer.

“Tim can’t,” he replies sourly. “He’ll try and get me nicotine patches again. I love that man to death, I really do, but he drives me up the fucking wall.”

“He does it because he cares,” Dan says. There’s a pause. “Did they... leave behind any goodies?”

That gets him a pointed look.

“Just so you don’t have a guilty conscience when you go home tonight,” he adds, mouth curled up into a half-smile.

Craig rolls his eyes and pulls out a box from a drawer. “Hand rolled and everything.” 

He lobs the box over to Dan, who pockets it without another word.

“Now, on to what you’re  _ supposed _ to be here for.”

“One or two?”

“Neither, actually,” Craig tells him matter-of-factly. 

Dan sits up in his seat.

Well,  _ this  _ hasn’t happened before.

To be perfectly honest, he hadn’t even realised a third option was possible. For all the years Craig has been his manager, nothing like this has ever popped up (at least, anything that Dan’s been aware of.) And if Dan’s being more honest, the thought of something he can’t worm his way out of makes him sick to the stomach.

He’s been in the industry for the best part of five years. His debut EP  _ void  _ catapulted him into the life he now lives and topped a couple of alternative charts, the kind of charts that no one but executives pay attention to. His sophomore release and first album  _ live my truth  _ was even more of a success. He doesn’t have the best singing voice ever, but he’s hard working and earnest and his songs tap into emotions people didn’t even know they could feel, so he takes what he can get.

“Oh,” he says, to fill space and bide himself some more time to think. “Well...”

“I should explain,” Craig interrupts him. “I got an email from the higher-ups about it. Ever heard of Phil Lester?”

Dan practically chokes on air.

Things just got so,  _ so  _ much worse.

Phil Lester, in Dan’s eyes, happens to be one of the best musicians and instrumentalists of his generation. It was Phil’s band Orange Excuse that inspired Dan to do more with his keyboard than mess around learning snippets of Chopin pieces. Without Phil, Dan’s life would have ended up being wildly different.

By all accounts, Phil’s something of a hero to Dan. And that’s a huge problem.

“From Orange Excuse?” he queries, picking at a fingernail.

“That’s the one,” Craig confirms. “Turns out you’re both ambassadors for the same charity.”

Dan only publicly supports one charity. 

Shit.

“I didn’t know he endorsed Mind,” Dan says slowly. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I’m just getting onto that,” he replies, clicking on something on his screen. “Right, here we go. Basically, since festival season is coming up, someone’s had the idea of releasing a charity single. All proceeds go to Mind, obviously. They want you and Phil Lester to write this song together, by the looks of things. Something ‘catchy, but powerful and poignant’. It’s got to get people’s attention and hopefully top some charts. Sound good?”

Dan squeezes his eyes shut, as if that will somehow help him process everything he’s just heard. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t help. The more he thinks about it, the more questions come up.

“I…” he starts, faltering. “Why me?”

“There are always more questions with you,” Craig sighs, taking his glasses off and pinching the bridge of his nose. “You and Lester are exactly what this country needs right now. Think about it! Two polar opposite artists joining forces to create a track that brings people together and sheds a light on all the things people don’t want to talk about. Imagine all the good it’ll do for Mind. This, quite frankly, is a fucking fantastic opportunity and I won’t let you turn it down.”

And just like that, as if things could get much worse, Craig has just resorted to begging. If his hip replacement would allow it, Dan reckons he’d be on his hands and knees.

He knows the right thing to do is to accept, but he can’t help but feel insecure. This is unlike anything he’s ever done before. He’s become known in the industry for never doing collaborations, and this is exactly why — he gets so in his head about it he ends up being more of a hindrance than a help.

“What about the other members?” he says, his voice suddenly small. “Of Orange Excuse.”

“They’ll help out,” Craig reassures him. “The primary focus is on you and Lester, but they’ve all already agreed to do this.”

“They have?”

Craig looks up from his computer with something akin to realisation dawning on his face.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake. Is that what this is about?”

“No!” Dan splutters, his cheeks growing warmer with each passing second. “Of course not! Why would it… why would I even consider…”

“Well, I don’t get this every day!” Craig says, clapping his hands together, springing up and coming to sit next to Dan. “Which one of them is it?”

“None of them!” he insists. “It’s nothing!”

Craig gently places a hand on Dan’s thigh.

“I know a look of gay panic when I see one,” he says, sagely. “Don’t worry. I promise you it’ll all work out fine. Just please finish the song before sucking one of them off.”

“Craig!” Dan whines. “You’re not helping!”

“You know what? Why limit it to one!”

“Please stop.”

“Well, hey, I don’t blame you,” Craig finally relents, a shit-eating grin on his face. “They’re all dashingly handsome, I know.”

“Tim won’t like the sound of that.”

“If anything, Tim agrees with me,” he retorts.

There’s a sudden stillness in the air. Craig leans back in his seat and looks out of the window contemplatively. 

“Listen, all jokes aside, the choice is up to you. Just know that if you turn this down I’ll never forgive you for as long as I live.”

Dan sighs dramatically. “In that case, I think I’ll say yes.”

“You sound like you’re being sincere,” Craig notes.

“I am.”

Craig claps again. “Perfect! In that case, I’ll let them know right away.”

When Dan doesn’t respond right away, he adds: “This’ll be good for you. I promise.”

Dan nods. “So, what’s next?”

“Good question,” Craig hums. “In the meantime, you need to pay Lara a visit.”

“What for?”

“Mind are hosting a dinner to unveil the single. It’ll be good for you to meet some of the guys in charge. I believe Orange Excuse have also been invited, so you’ll get to meet them, too.”

The blood all but drains from Dan’s face.

“I should see Lara, then.”

Craig chuckles. “She can slot you in now. There’s a taxi waiting for you downstairs.”

“Oh, to be rich and famous,” Dan quips humourlessly, standing up and reaching out a hand for Craig to shake. “See you soon?”

Craig shakes his hand with gusto. “I’ll text you more details as soon as I get them.”

As Dan leaves Craig’s office (out of the back entrance to avoid any unwanted attention) he realises that something in the air has shifted. He, Dan Howell, is going to write a song with the band he’s idolised for years for a charity he genuinely cares about. All of those teenage years of longing and heartache and hollow sadness finally feel like they were worth it, like having those experiences has given him the clarity he needs now to do this right.

The thought stays with him the entire journey from his label’s office to his stylist Lara’s studio. Not even her perpetually sunny aura is enough to shake him out of his own head; after seeing that he’s clearly not in the right mood for discussing outfit choices, she lets him leave with a note that she’ll have a suit tailored and sent to him in the next couple of days.

Things, it seems, are coming full circle. Perhaps that’s what scares him the most.


	2. i

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you want to know what i had in mind for dan's suit, see **[here](https://twitter.com/harryworewhat/status/1133796303073415174?s=20)** :')
> 
> hope u enjoy! updates will be every monday from now on <3

Frank Sinatra lazily croons from a record player. Dan sits in a heap of blankets, mug of tea in hand, soaking in the calm and quiet and the last few glimmers of sunlight. He’s trying, albeit unsuccessfully, to savour his last few moments of freedom before people start arriving and the noise starts to skyrocket.

Today’s the big day. It’s today that Dan finally meets the members of Orange Excuse, and he’s still unsure of how exactly that’ll pan out. They say you should never meet your heroes, but he figures if they’re all drunk enough, none of them will really remember anything.

Of all the days to choose for such a momentous event, they’ve chosen a Wednesday. Not the smartest choice ever, but he hopes it’ll provide him some of the midweek relief he’s been craving. 

For the past year, he’s been in hibernation, only going on social media occasionally to reassure himself that he isn’t completely irrelevant. When he isn’t at home, he goes down to Brighton every couple of weeks to clear his head and visit Tim (sometimes with Craig, sometimes not). Other than that, he finds himself on the cloud chair he impulse bought one night and has lived in ever since, sipping tea and watching the world drift by without him.

The doorbell rings. Dan waddles over in his blanket cocoon and opens the door to see Lara smiling back at him. When she hears the music, she sighs wistfully.

“Strangers in the night, two lonely people…” she sings.

“We were strangers in the night…” Dan continues, stepping aside (as best he can given his fabric constraints) and letting her in. She swans her way down the hall and over to the nearest available sofa. He opts to wait at the door because knowing what Lara’s like, there’ll be at least two other people following after her. 

Just as he suspected, Lara’s assistant (slash model slash cute girlfriend) Gisele comes through the door carrying a suit bag and balancing a shoe box on her shoulder. He’s too focused on trying to sneak a preview of what he’s meant to be wearing that he barely notices the next person entering his house.

There’s a muffled guffaw. Dan turns around to see a face he’d really rather not see.

“Oh,” he says stupidly.

“Meant to say,” Gisele murmurs, looking a little sheepish. “Matt’s buggered off to Spain.”

“I’m next in line,” the guy explains. “But I can be completely professional, so please don’t worry or anything.”

Dan just nods and lets them past. He instinctively raises a hand to his lips, letting the blanket fall off him and land on the ground with a soft thud.

The last time he saw Romeo (of all the fucking names in the world to have, it  _ had  _ to be Romeo) was at Lara’s birthday party. It was a small gathering at a bar in Notting Hill, but not small enough to stop paparazzi photographing him getting outlandishly drunk and sticking his tongue down Romeo’s throat. Every detail from that night is permanently etched in Dan’s brain, like how he wore a loose fitting pastel blue shirt, how Romeo tasted of Tanqueray and honey, how he sat in the taxi home feeling like a hollowed out shell of a man.

When he’d made it to Craig’s office the next day, the damage had been done. He’d been forcibly outed to the entire world before he’d even come to terms with his sexuality himself.

He hasn’t touched gin since.

Dan’s lips feel dry under his fingertips. As he stands there for a moment too long, he remembers a short video he filmed a while ago with the intention of posting but never got around to. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, scrolls back through his camera roll and watches it without the sound on (not that he needs the sound — at this point he’s memorised every word he said to the point where it’s permanently imprinted in his brain.)

_ “Hi there, it’s Dan. I’m the last person to ever film something like this, but with all the speculation going around I wanted to clear something up. Sexuality isn’t something I talk about but, for the record, I’m gay. I’ll talk about it more when I’m ready. For now, please respect my decision to go public with this. I love you all. See you soon.” _

The only other person who knows about this video’s existence is Craig. They came up with a plan that whenever Dan wanted to post said video, he'd text  _ CODE RAINBOW  _ and let Craig handle the rest.

Something inside him wants to post that video, to have it out there forever and finally lift the weight off his shoulders, but for now, he shakes his head, picks up the blanket and trails it behind him as he goes to where he can hear noise coming from.

Lara and Gisele have made themselves at home on his sofa, their reason for being here momentarily abandoned. Romeo hovers like a deer in the headlights, arms folded over his chest, shoulders curved inwards as if he’s trying to shield himself from the world. As the last few notes of  _ Strangers in the Night  _ ring out, Dan makes eye contact with him and hopes that the song he once loved so much will one day take on a different meaning.

“Have you showered?” Lara asks. Dan shakes his head. “Thought not. Go and do it now, please. We can get you suited and booted once you’re done.”

He knows the drill by now. The second he’s upstairs, they’ll raid his fridge and watch one of his old YouTube videos to pass the time. Once he’s finished, Lara will probably shout at him for making the shower water too hot (so what if he likes to damn near scald his skin?) while Gisele watches from afar and tries to keep her lips sealed.

(Dan can never look at her eyes for too long. They’re full of a casual fondness he craves so intensely it’ll probably make him go insane one day.)

For whatever reason, Dan spends an abnormally long time in the shower scrubbing every inch of his body. When he realises that soap can’t wash off the sensation that someone’s watching him, he hops out and heads downstairs with his hair still damp.

“There you are!” Lara beams, completely ignoring him in favour of watching a much younger Dan talk about his procrastination problems. Dan sighs and shakes his head slightly.

“Hair first?” he asks, suddenly embarrassed at his state of being. When he got out of the shower, his main priority was forcing himself back downstairs. Maybe it should have been choosing a half-decent outfit that didn’t consist of his own merchandise and old gym shorts.

_ You win some, you lose some?  _ he thinks to himself. 

_ No. You lose them all until the point where even a small loss feels like a victory. _

“Hair first,” she confirms. She doesn’t move, but she does have the decency to lower the volume on the TV slightly. 

Romeo steadfastly avoids eye contact as he waits for Dan to sit down.

He tries to the best of his ability to take his mind elsewhere as Romeo styles his hair, but it proves harder than he thought. The man has angelic fingers (if such a concept exists); he combs through Dan’s damp mop with a calm confidence, dries it within an inch of its life, smooths out any frizz with some kind of putty-like substance and gives it a final zhuzh. The final result is almost as good as what Matt, his normal hair stylist, would do. He offers a wan smile as a thank you.

“I’ll see myself out,” Romeo murmurs in reply, already packing up. Dan nods, solemn, as he gets up out of the chair and wanders over to where Lara and Gisele are sitting. Gisele looks up at Dan, her fingers gently tangled in Lara’s hair, and smiles.

“It’s your time to shine,” she says to Lara. Lara groans and heaves herself off of Gisele’s lap.

“Fine,” comes the playfully grumpy reply. “I thought of three potential outfits, but there’s one I think you’ll love. It also happens to be the only one I have here with me, so if you don’t like it then you’ll just have to suck it up.”

She practically skips over to where the suit bag is hanging, slings it over her shoulder and shoves it into Dan’s arms when she gets back to him. Peeking through the material, it looks like a white jacket and trousers.

“Am I going shirtless again?” he asks, grinning.

“Nope,” she says, grinning back. “There’s a vest in there.”

“And who’s this by?”

“Gucci. It’s their Spring/Summer 2019 collection,” she reels off, rolling her eyes at his obvious excitement. “Less drooling over Alessandro and more getting ready, please. We’re pressed for time as it is.”

“But what about arriving fashionably late?” he teases.

“Oh, fuck right off.”

Despite Lara’s desperation, Dan takes his sweet time getting into the suit and agonising over how it looks on him. Out of all the times Lara’s styled him, this is actually one of his favourites. It’s a creamy off-white colour that complements the tan he’s still clinging onto, with buttons that make his eyes seem brighter. As an added bonus, the trousers are, for once, long enough for his stupidly long legs.

Rummaging through some drawers, he picks out a pair of smart socks and some jewellery he thinks will enhance his look further. When he’s satisfied, he does a final twirl and smiles at his reflection before heading downstairs.

Before he’s even reached the bottom step, Lara is shoving a pair of shoes at him.

“You have,” she says, glancing down at her watch, “24 seconds until we’re supposed to be there. We’ll be waiting in the car with Trevor. For the love of God, be quick.”

Dan, realising how stressed she looks, quickly laces up his shoes, almost drowns himself in cologne (Paco Rabanne has never let him down — yet) and grabs the essentials before hurrying out to the sleek four-by-four that’s waiting for him. Lara and Gisele are cosying up in the two back seats, while Craig is sat amiably chatting with Dan’s driver, Trevor.

“Sorry for the wait,” he says. “Something on my phone about a code rainbow.”

Craig looks at him through the rear-view mirror. His eyes say  _ are you sure? _

Dan nods. He’s had a draft tweet saved for as long as he can remember. He pulls out his phone, finds what he’s looking for and clicks ‘Tweet’. Before he does anything else, he turns on Airplane Mode and tries to ignore the impending sense of doom pooling in his stomach.

“Sounds cool,” Trevor replies, oblivious. “Like a potential single name or something.”

He forces out a small laugh. “Yeah, maybe. How long until we get there?”

“About 15 minutes,” Craig says. 

“Is that too early?” he ponders aloud.

“More on time than you usually are,” Trevor notes.

“It’s still late,” Lara whines. “The canapés are my favourite part. Every time we get there all the good ones are gone.”

“You’re just a fussy eater, dearie,” Craig rebutts. “Besides, it won’t matter tonight.”

(Despite Dan’s best attempts, he couldn’t convince Craig to make room for two extra people. In fairness, neither Lara nor Gisele have anything to do with the musical side of Dan’s career, but he’d have appreciated having another familiar face or two at dinner.)

“I know,” she says. “Just worth bearing in mind.”

Dan slowly tunes the conversation out, until Lara and Gisele discussing plans to make their own canapés at home becomes nothing more than background noise. He watches London blur into shades of sepia out of his window and hopes that tonight won’t be too much of a disaster.

_ It’d take a lot to be worse than publicly coming out to millions of people around the world _ , his brain unhelpfully reminds him.

When Trevor finally pulls up to the staff entrance of a fancy restaurant whose name he can’t pronounce, he hears heavenly choirs burst into song.

He bids farewell to Trevor, Lara and Gisele before following Craig inside. For once, he makes it inside completely undetected, a fact that helps to calm him a little as he weaves his way through a corridor and into a dimly lit room.

As he walks in, a staff member turns the lights up so he can actually see the people already milling about. There are a few sharply dressed men nursing glasses of champagne that he recognises as the higher-ups at his label, a few people he hasn't seen before and a trio lurking in one corner that he assumes must be Orange Excuse.

Though his natural instinct is to go and introduce himself to the band he’ll be spending most of the following months with, he feels Craig’s hand on his lower back, gently steering him to the champagne drinkers. On the way there, he accepts a glass for himself from an embarrassed looking waitress and takes a small sip.

“Craig!” one of the men says, looking cheerful. They shake hands.

“How are you?” he replies. “This is Dan, or Daniel, as you know him.”

Dan shakes the man’s hand and frantically tries to remember his name. Jerry? Jeremy? Something like that.

“Hi there, how d’you do?”

“Fine, fine,” Jeremy (thank God he finally remembered) says dismissively. “I expect you’ll want to do the rounds. We can catch up later. Good to see you!”

And with that, Dan finds himself being carted off to be introduced to another group of people. On approach, he vaguely recognises the woman standing in the middle.

“Daniel!” she says warmly. Dan shakes her proffered hand. “I’m Li. I’m not sure if you remember me from another Mind event? Anyway, we met there briefly.”

A light bulb switches on in Dan’s mind. “Of course we did! Nice to see you again.”

“You too. It’s really good of you to agree to do this. I think we’ll be able to help a lot of people.”

“Oh, really, it’s nothing,” Dan replies. “Mental health is a topic close to my heart. I don’t think I could’ve said no, to be honest.”

Li chuckles.

As they continue talking, Dan feels their conversation being watched. He tilts his head slightly to see the members of Orange Excuse looking in his direction.

“Are you wanted elsewhere?” Li queries.

“Apparently so,” Dan says. “Listen, it was lovely talking to you. Hopefully I’ll see you again soon?”

“I’m sure we’ll cross paths.”

Finally, after hobnobbing with the best of them for a solid half an hour, Dan goes over to meet the band he’s actually supposed to be working with. As much as he tries to hide it, he feels uncomfortably sweaty and anxious already. He can only hope that they, too, have had something to drink and can ease into conversation without too much difficulty.

“Daniel Howell,” one of them says, just as another says, “I’m getting a drink.”

Dan watches Phil Lester edge his way around a table and towards the drinks table. He frowns.

“Phil’s a bit of a tough nut to crack,” he says, somewhere between resigned and apologetic. “I’m PJ. I do bass, keyboard… that kind of stuff.”

“He’s the band’s instrumentalist,” the other one elaborates. “I’m Chris. I’m on drums and only drums.”

“And when he’s not on drums he’s on the lash,” PJ adds, grinning. “Nice to meet you.”

Dan shakes both of their hands and throws the rest of his glass down his throat in an attempt to force himself to loosen up.

By the time one of the waitresses is calling everyone to sit at the table, Phil still hasn’t returned from the drinks.

“Fucking great,” Dan murmurs to himself, going over to the seating arrangement to see where he’s supposed to go. “He’s avoiding me.”

On one end of the table, right next to where an elegant scrawl has written  _ Daniel Howell,  _ the name reads  _ Phil Lester.  _ Dan grits his teeth. If Phil’s actively avoiding him, he can’t do it for much longer.

He sits down, picks up the bread roll on his plate and rips it apart in his hands before eating a chunk of it.

“Thank fuck for bread, eh?” Craig whispers in his ear. Dan damn near jumps out of his seat.

“Stop doing that!” he hisses. Craig laughs to himself and continues walking to where he’s sat. (He’s three whole seats away from him this time. Whoever did the seating arrangement is seriously taking the piss.)

Dan has nearly finished his roll (ciabatta — bloody divine) when the seat next to him is pulled out from under the table. Neither of them say anything. Dan looks up from his plate and offers a small smile. Phil doesn’t smile — or say anything — back.

This pattern continues for most of the evening. Dan contents himself by talking to the Mind representatives to his left and enjoying the food (apparently this restaurant has a Michelin star, and he can see why.)

It’s only when people are finishing dessert that Phil decides to acknowledge his existence.

“Pasta or pizza?” he says.

Dan turns to face him. Phil has angled his entire body towards Dan, one leg crossed over the other, glass of red wine in hand. His hair is unkempt and pushed back, his eyes half-lidded, weighed down with a combination of sleeplessness and alcohol floating in his veins. He’s taken the liberty of partially unbuttoning his shirt, and suddenly Dan’s senses are clouded with the sight of his chest hair and the smell of his cologne and the thought of all of his wet dreams coming back to haunt him.

As introductions go, this is certainly unconventional, but he figures that if he plays along, maybe Phil will let him in eventually.

“Tough one,” he replies. “Pasta.”

Phil looks at him as if he’s sprouted another nose and shakes his head.

“Pizza,” he says, almost correcting Dan despite the fact that opinions can’t be corrected. “Left or right?”

“Left,” Dan replies on instinct.

Phil shakes his head again. “Right. Guitar or piano?”

“Both?” he says, his first real attempt at pushing the boat out.

“That’s not the name of the game,” Phil drawls. “Bath or shower?”

“Steamy,” Dan comments. 

He looks up to see Phil almost laugh. It’s gone before it ever really came, like sparks that almost ignite but can’t quite make it.

“Bath or shower,” he presses.

“If I had to choose…” Dan says, “then a bath. You can’t beat a good bath.”

“You can beat a good bath with a good shower,” Phil counters, in what’s possibly the first full sentence Dan’s heard him say.

“Are you kidding?” he says, frowning. “How can you not love baths? They’re amazing.”

“I guess I just prefer showers,” Phil replies nonchalantly, his words beginning to slur together. “Baths force you to soak in what you used to be.”

Dan blinks. 

This man is something else. The only thing he can take any comfort in is the fact that Phil absolutely won’t remember any of this conversation tomorrow morning.

“Well.” He pauses. “Isn’t self-reflection a good thing sometimes?”

Time starts to slow down. Dan watches as Phil half-yells “No!” in response. He watches as Phil’s arms flail and as a wave of very expensive, very red wine sloshes out of his glass and onto Dan’s very expensive, very white suit trousers. He feels it as it soaks into his thigh and dribbles down his face.

Dan then decides that some otherworldly power has given him a cue to leave.

He’d be rude not to take it.


	3. ii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!
> 
> sorry this took so long to update. now that i'm in the writing groove again i'll try to get a few more chapters written soon :')
> 
> enjoy! as always kudos and comments etc. are Very Much appreciated <3 ily

Dan spends several sleepless nights alone, his eyes half-focused on the ceiling, thoughts circling around his mind like leaves being stirred up by an autumn breeze. 

The response to his (quote unquote) “Coming Out” video was a lot more positive than he could have anticipated. He’s been refreshing his social media pages almost fanatically, waiting for a rogue homophobic comment to jump out at him and make him realise vulnerability of any kind is a mistake.

There haven’t been any — at least, not that he’s seen — but the insomnia is relentless. 

He finds himself in a cycle where he physically can’t cope without sleep, but can’t actually fall asleep long enough to steady himself. Perhaps what’s worst of all is he lets it happen, lets everything he tried so hard to suppress bubble up, in the hopes that one day, the clouds will part and the fog will clear.

(From experience, London has always seemed concerningly overcast when he takes that approach to handling his episodes.  _ Let’s give it a go one more time, _ he tells himself.  _ Just to make sure I’m not dismissing another potential coping mechanism. _ )

Day Seven of his slump comes around quicker than he expected. He manages to force himself out of bed as the sun is beginning to set, drink a sip of water and finish off a packet of crisps he finds on the floor leading out of his bedroom. When his stomach protests, he decides to try to eat something that’ll sustain him for longer.

His fridge and cupboards are depressingly bare (as is he, but he’s not getting into that right now). He settles for ordering himself a pizza and several tubs too many of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream.

It’s as he’s going to get another glass of water (“Could someone depressed do this?” he laughs to himself) that he hears a noise. If he’d stayed up in his room, he wouldn’t have heard it; on some subconscious level he’s silently grateful for that.

Brandishing himself with the only thing he thinks will do damage (a pepper grinder; kind of a two-in-one weapon when you think about it), he edges closer to the source of the noise — which happens to be his back door — and waits for whoever’s trying to intrude to get on with it.

The lock turns.

The door  _ creeeeeaks _ open.

And Craig’s on the other side of it, carrying what looks like a selection of some of his homemade pies.

“Christ alive,” he mutters. “No need to go all out to welcome me.”

For the first time in what feels like a small eternity, Dan manages a laugh, any adrenaline he previously had melting through him. 

“I like to put on a show.”

Craig’s face softens when he realises the state Dan’s in.

“Well,” he says, gently, “no need for a show tonight. Put some clothes on and I’ll heat these up for us.”

Dan pauses. “You haven’t eaten?”

“Not in the way you’re implying,” Craig responds. “But it’s been an… interesting week. There are people out there who think I indoctrinated you. Some bollocks about reverse conversion therapy? Anyway.”

He gives Dan a pointed look, one that says  _ please get out of your boxers and put something decent on _ . Dan has no choice but to oblige.

When he re-emerges from upstairs (which took longer than he would have liked, given he’s not 100% functional), something delicious-smelling wafts past his nose. Craig’s gone to the trouble of setting the table, making a salad and warming up the pies he brought over. Dan musters a grateful smile.

After one mouthful of pie, he realises how much he’s been mistreating himself recently. Although it was unintentional to begin with, it had reached a stage where he was wilfully neglecting his needs, as if it was some kind of punishment for being stupid enough to want to be open with his fans.

“D’you like it?” Craig asks. “They’re all vegan. There’s fake steak and ale, fake steak and mushroom, mac ‘n’ cheese…”

“You made these?” 

(Dan’s skepticism is only natural. Craig’s a man who enjoys all kinds of meat.)

“Got them from a bakery,” he says. “While I was there, I also got dessert. It’s in the fridge.” He pauses and almost visibly shudders. “Which, by the way, was an absolute fucking state! Brenda would have an aneurysm if she saw it!”

Brenda, Dan’s therapist, is one name on a list of people he doesn’t have the energy to respond to right now, regardless of how he personally feels about them.

“I’m having…” he trails off, avoiding Craig’s careful gaze. “A wobble? I don’t know.”

Craig sets his fork down and takes Dan’s hand, giving it a good squeeze.

“Did you know Elton was my first experience with a man?” he says, softly.

Dan looks up, taken aback, but says nothing.

“The press hounded me for months. I lost my job, my family, everything. Almost lost my life. But through it all, I had to remind myself that it wasn’t my fault. Sexuality isn’t a choice, Dan. It’s not a switch you can flick on or off or a scale you can tip. It’s part of who you are. It was part of who I was, and I’ve never apologised for it. I’m not expecting you to blaze down the street in tighty whities carrying a rainbow flag, but, just… don’t regret what you’ve done, okay? I’m not letting you carry unnecessary guilt with you for years. Not like I did.”

Tears prick at his eyes. Dan feels himself welling up too. He raises a shaky sleeve to wipe at his eyes, laughing despite himself.

“The guilt’s already there,” he confesses. “But I’m working on it.”

“Then that’s more than I can ask for,” Craig says, a tear rolling down his cheek. He reaches inside his coat (which he never took off, true to style) and pulls out an envelope. “For you. Close your eyes and don’t open it yet. I’ll go and get dessert.”

Dan has barely dented his pie or touched the salad, but he lets his eyes shut and listens out for Craig’s next movements. He hears what sounds like a cardboard box being yanked out of the fridge and smiles slightly.

“Cake?” he guesses.

“Bastard,” Craig whispers, not-too-subtly. Dan takes that as a cue to open his eyes.

Craig takes his time sliding the cake out of the box, but the wait is worth it. The entire cake is covered with soft peaks of buttercream in every pastel shade imaginable. On top, there’s a rainbow made of fondant and the words “Proud Of You” in an elegantly iced scrawl. Dan feels himself tearing up again, although this time, his emotions have done a complete 180 degree turn. He pulls out his phone and takes a series of photos; this is one memory he’s alright with having digital evidence of.

“We don’t have to eat any, but it’d be nice to see what they did inside,” Craig says, a fond smile on his face.

“Is it a rainbow inside?” Dan asks, his appetite suddenly reappearing.

“You’ll have to wait and see,” he replies. Dan can tell from his tone that he’s hit the nail on the head.

While Craig eats the first slice (only because Dan let him, but not without Craig forcing him to have the honourary first mouthful), Dan opens the envelope and reads the card inside. On one side, people from his team who he’s never spoken to have each written short but sweet messages of support and congratulations, all in the vicinity of “So proud of you!” or “Well done! You’re so brave!” On the other side, Craig, Tim, Gisele and Lara have each written lengthy paragraphs that Dan knows he’ll find himself reading time after time.

As he’s about to read Gisele’s paragraph, the doorbell rings.

“Expecting company?” Craig asks.

Dan has a sudden recollection. “Shit. I ordered a Domino’s.”

“I’ll get it,” Craig says, standing up and making his way to the front door.

When he comes back, he’s staggering under the weight of what looks like 10 tubs of ice cream. Dan feels the blood rush to his cheeks.

“Looks like you were in for a rough night,” he comments, wheezing slightly. “I’ve never seen so much cookie dough in my life.”

“Sorry about that,” Dan murmurs. “Impulse buy.”

They end up sharing the pizza and Craig’s sorely neglected salad, washing it all down with some beers they found at the bottom of Dan’s fridge (in fairness, it’s a much larger fridge than one person can justify needing.) They talk and laugh and eat and overall, it’s one of the best nights Dan’s had in a while, the kind of night that reminds him just how much good there is in life.

Despite the darkness that can feel all-consuming sometimes, there are glimmers of hope that punctuate it like stars in the night sky. It’s not much, but it’s enough for him.

At the end of the night, Craig says goodbye and hands Dan another envelope. Dan’s about to ask who it’s from, but Craig has vanished before the question even leaves his lips.

It takes him an embarrassingly short amount of time to rip open the envelope (brown paper, sealed with wax — an interesting and strangely romantic choice) and see what’s inside. It’s a sheet of paper, ripped from a notebook and partially filled with loopy writing. In the dwindling light, he can just about make out what it says:

_ Dear Dan, _

_ I wanted to say sorry for spilling red wine on your trousers (were they Gucci, by the way?) — I was hideously drunk and absolutely not in a fit state to be out in public. Forgive me. I can pay for dry cleaning, if you’d like? _

_ I also wanted to say sorry for how I acted. Meeting new people isn’t something that comes easily to me. Ironic, isn’t it? My job means I’m constantly surrounded by them. _

_ I’m writing this to ask if you’d like to maybe start over? We could get dinner or drinks somewhere, get to know each other a bit better. I’m aware we have to write the Song of the Summer together and I’d like us to be on good terms for that. _

_ All the best, _

_ Phil _

Attached is a phone number, presumably Phil’s. Without thinking, Dan types the number into his phone and sends a text.

**hi phil, it’s dan. just got your letter. dinner (or drinks) sounds lovely! i’m free whenever <3**

Feeling sleepy and sated, Dan decides it’s a good time to head upstairs and wind down. When he’s in bed, he finally takes the plunge and opens Twitter. The first tweet that pops up is from none other than Craig.

Craig Finchley

@craigfinch

When the Moon hits your eye like a big Pizza Pie, that’s Amor é ! Xx

Chuckling to himself, he likes the tweet (partly because he knows why Craig tweeted it and partly to remind people that he’s still alive even after coming out) and moves on to his other social media.

Once he’s started, he can’t stop. He likes countless edits of himself, resplendent in rainbow or artfully Photoshopped in a myriad of ways that continually blows his mind with the sheer creativity of the people who look up to him. He posts a photo of the rainbow cake Craig brought earlier and captions it with a simple heart emoji. He responds to texts and emails from colleagues and friends and makes a note to call back his mum and grandma when it isn’t so late. All in all, what started out as a rough day has suddenly been transformed into one of the most moving and memorable days of his life.

It’s on that note that he finds himself falling asleep. Perhaps he dreams it, but he swears he sees his phone screen flash with a reply from Phil.

* * *

As it turns out, he wasn’t dreaming. Phil’s text reads:

**Hey Dan! You up for dinner tonight? Your manager told me your address (lol) so I can pop over and we can find somewhere to eat!**

Well.

**sounds good !**

When his phone flashes up that the text’s been delivered, he rolls over and sleeps the rest of the morning away. Despite how much Craig lifted his spirits last night, he still doesn’t feel 100% himself again. 

The prospect of actually meeting Phil Lester doesn’t fill him with excitement either. From his letter, it sounds like they have things in common, though: for one, they both don’t enjoy meeting new people. For another, they’ll be spending a lot of time together. Dan struggles to collaborate with people he’s on good terms with at the best of times (if anything, as a rule he generally avoids them), so it’ll be in their interests to smooth things over if this song is to be as successful as everyone wants it to be.

A small eternity later, he feels his phone buzz by his ear. It’s his mum. The sun looks like it’s slowly being engulfed by the horizon, so he decides to put her on speaker while he finally gets out of bed and tries to make himself look presentable.

While sliding into some jeans, he realises she’s steered the conversation towards unfamiliar territory.

“I’m no good with social media, you see,” she says, her voice just as warm over the phone. “But my friend Pat, you know Pat? — oh, of course you know Pat — well, she has a tech wiz daughter who downloaded the video for her and sent it to me. I just…” 

She falters slightly, trailing off. Dan fiddles with the zips on his jacket (he’s testing different items of clothing for a smart casual look), waiting for her to collect her thoughts and spit it out already.

“I’m sorry I never knew,” she murmurs. “And I’m sorry for not… considering it? I don’t know the right thing to say, dear.”

“It’s fine,” he replies, blinking at his vacant reflection in the mirror.

“What I will say is that whoever you end up with, they need to be a radiator, not a sink.”

“Sorry?”

“You need to be with someone who brings out the best in you,” she explains, a certain grit behind her words. “Someone who radiates your happiness and celebrates your successes. Stay away from people who let everything flow through them like a sink, or people who bring you down. They have to make you happy, dear! And if they don’t, to hell with them.”

Dan pauses for a moment. “That — that actually makes a lot of sense. Thanks, Mum.”

“When have I ever been wrong,” she muses. “At least you have a good support system in place. They’ll take care of you.”

He smiles, thinking of when he’ll next get to see Craig, or his favourite lesbian duo, or, hell, even Romeo.

“They will.”

They say their goodbyes shortly afterwards. Dan’s granny is currently on a hike in the Lake District apparently, so their conversation will have to wait until she’s somewhere with a working signal and has had enough time to rest.

As he finishes getting ready, he thinks about Romeo again. He wonders whether he should send some kind of message like Phil did with him, something to say “sorry about how things panned out, care for a fresh start?” He wonders whether Romeo would reply the way he did, whether one night of drunken tonsil tennis is enough to completely write off any potential future friendship or relationship.

_ Relationship? No. Too early for that. _

He’s only just opened his heart to the world. To start dating someone, a  _ man, _ would be like leading himself to slaughter, the proverbial sacrificial lamb.

Friendship will do. He sends a quick text to Gisele asking for Romeo’s contact details before finalising his look for this evening.

Something he’s quickly come to realise is just how to balance what he wears. It can’t be too flashy or over-the-top (paparazzi catch on a lot quicker that way), but it needs to be enough so that he doesn’t feel under-dressed. On the other hand, it also needs to be comfortable. Money can buy many things, but comfort isn’t always the top priority on that list.

He decides on a hideously overpriced sweatshirt, some ripped jeans, a beanie to hide the mess that’s his hair and some equally overpriced trainers. Out of habit, he slides a couple of rings onto his fingers (to match the ring in his ear) and tucks a chain he always wears under his sweatshirt.

Once he’s dressed, he ekes out as much time as possible brushing his teeth, shaving and liberally applying aftershave (another thing he’s come to realise is how utterly awful it is to realise you smell bad). 

He shoves his phone and wallet into his pockets, checks his windows are locked (twice), ties and re-ties his shoelaces and takes his phone out of his pocket to check it, before resorting to sitting at the bottom of his stairs waiting for the door to ring.

After another hefty social media liking spree, his phone buzzes with a text.

**I’m outside now :)**

That smiley face is too damn ominous for his liking. 

Standing up, he swallows sharply, draws his shoulders back and steels himself before opening the door to see none other than Phil Lester himself standing in his doorway.


End file.
